


Little Trader

by Ook



Series: Traders [3]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Author consumed by own fiction; film at eleven, Charles Is a Darling, Charles is eleven, Erik is immortal, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Gen, I'm not even going to pretend this one's a oneshot., Magic, Off-screen torture of a child, Racism, Recovery, Shaw is a fool and a horrible man, Spirits, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So. Back in the Erik as spirit; Charles as trader, Traders verse, Erik mentions in passing that he was once held captive by Shaw and released by a Xavier; which is one of the reasons he hs kept an eye on the Xavier family ever since. This, then, is the story of how eleven year old Charles Xavier met and freed a trade spirit; and the consequences of that deed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One day, Erik will be free. He clings to this knowledge, this hope, through the years of binding. One day, Sebastian will miss-step. One day, Erik will tear this collar from his throat, the other less visible chains from his body, and there will be a reckoning. One day, the mage will be vulnerable, and Erik will be able to break this bond, to correct the mistake he made so long ago.

He does not hope for Sebastian to age or die.

Erik set up the spells that keep Sebastian alive and young; they were the first task Sebastian gave him. He no longer has to power them (unless the mage cannot find better fuel), but he can sense them, and he’s bitterly proud of the fact that they show no signs of fading or warping. 

They are strong and well made, like Erik himself.

Erik was weak once. Sebastian found him, almost unbound from his lands and with no people or deals to hold him. So the mortal tricked him. Lied to him. Bound him, little caring that binding a trade-spirit like Erik _hurts_ him, every minute, every hour of every day.

Sebastian doesn’t care that, unlike demon spirits, there are few spells or charms that will work against Erik if he ever breaks free. Doesn’t care that Erik hates him with a vast quiet bitterness that does not shrink with age or habit, doesn’t care that Erik is older than the mountains and will outlive glaciers. Now Erik serves and obeys, unable to withhold himself, and waits. 

One day, Sebastian will make a mistake. And on that day, all trades are off, all deals done. Erik will be free.

 

The castle is quiet enough right now; Sebastian is not there. He will return soon, and then the place will crawl with his army and his servants. The noise the mortals create and the power Sebastian craves make Erik’s head ache. There was a time he took Erik with him wherever he travelled. Erik spares a glance for the iron-bound box still squatting in the corner of his cell—his quarters, Sebastian calls them; as if he’s forgotten Erik is here against his will.

That box is the only thing in this room, save for Erik himself. It is set with wards and bars and blocks, will hold Erik in both mortal and non-corporeal forms. He cannot shed his skin and escape that way, Sebastian had said, and laughed. Erik, bleeding energy from every violation Sebastian had used to force the binds on him, had swallowed his rage and waited.

Now those wounds have healed, but the rage is still there.

It rises, choking and black, as the clattering of hooves and the yells of men and dogs and all the noise tell Erik that his owner, his tormentor is back. Erik does not cross to the window. He does not focus his Sight. Sebastian knows where Erik is. If he wants Erik’s presence, he can summon him.

Erik rises, paces the room for a moment, and then stops, standing still. He breathes out. Breathes in. He does not normally _need_ to breathe much, but it’s one of the countless tiny things he’s never told Sebastian that mage does not already know. Erik keeps breathing; keeps up the habit, in case one day that is the tiny thing that proves the key to the mage’s destruction.

Footsteps. The door scrapes as the lock is opened. Sebastian’s’ dead white/grey aura burns just a few feet away. Erik drops to one knee, bows his head and fights to make his face display nothing of what he feels or thinks. Nothing at all.

“Ah.” The mage sounds pleased today. “Rise, Erik.” Erik stands. Looks at Sebastian, blankly.

“Master,” he says, monotone.

“Still so formal, after all these years? I thought we had grown past these things, Erik.” Shaw smiles. Erik hates him. Shaw gestures forwards a small mortal, grandiosely. The boy’s no more than ten at the most, Erik observes. Small, but well formed, and likely to keep his good looks when he matures. His bright blue eyes are wide with wary curiosity.

“You see, my boy?” Shaw says, genially. “If you study hard, and do as I tell you, you too might be able to bind a demon—” The boy’s eyes narrow and his mouth half-opens. 

Erik glares at the floor. Spirits such as he are not demons, or angels. They have no higher powers, no heavens or hells to tend or fill. They simply _are_. They have rules to their beings, certainly, but they are not—

“Sir, how do you know he’s a demon?” the boy asks, and Erik stays very, very still. If Sebastian seeks to demonstrate on Erik’s form—

“Ah, I forgot—you don’t have the Sight yet, do you? Your father’s wealth couldn’t buy you that.” Shaw ruffles the boy’s hair indulgently. The boy doesn’t look away from the collar around Erik’s neck. Erik hates it, too. It’s an ugly thing, with symbols no child should be able to recognise.

“No, Sir.” The boy sounds docile enough, but Erik knows enough of mortals—and boys—to be able to tell he’s lying. Interesting. He stretches out his senses—and hastily winds them in again. The boy is _powerful_ , magically speaking. Truly trained, he might be a threat to his master, even.

“Erik,” Shaw says, and Erik looks up again. “Young master Charles is here to learn.” He smiles brightly. The boy looks unhappy for a moment. Erik would not be surprised if the boy was also there as a hostage, or to be groomed into one of Shaw’s game pieces.

“You are to teach him the Names of the first circle of Powers, and which can be summoned safely.” Shaw speaks as if that is significant or dangerous knowledge, when Erik very well knows it is not. It’s just hard to come by, now so may books have been burnt.

“Yes, master.” Erik nods, blandly. 

Sebastian has a bad habit of storing things he knows in Erik’s head, and erasing them from the outside world, as if that makes them into secrets. It’s going to get him into trouble, one day. Erik hopes so, anyway. If he is ordered to teach the boy; if the boy’s ambitions for power (he must have them; he’s mortal) can be fostered…

Charles opens his mouth. Erik turns his head to look at him, and Charles is silent.

“Take him to the library.” Shaw keeps smiling. “Teach him well.”

Erik puts out a hand to the child, ignoring Shaw’s look of surprise at seeing him willingly touch another living being without instruction. This boy, this Charles has much still to learn, for he puts his small hand into Erik’s open grasp as swiftly and as trustingly as if Erik was a much-loved friend. 

“Where’s the library?” Charles tilts his head.

“Erik will show you.” Sebastian says. “Be good for him. Like you are for me, my boy.” Charles’s fingers twitch in Erik’s hand. He takes a half step closer to Erik, away from Shaw. Erik approves of such wisdom in one so young.

“Come with me,” Erik says; they are the first words he has spoken to someone not Sebastian in over a year. He takes a physical step back, pulling the boy with him, and then a wider step _through_ to the quiet room full of bookshelves and books Shaw calls a library; although only he and Erik ever go there.

 

 

Two nights later, something scrabbles faintly at Erik’s door. He sits up, puts his back to the wall and watches. It’s been a while since someone was stupid enough to try to get to Sebastian through harming his bound demon-slave, as he’s widely thought to be. It’s been longer since someone thought he could persuade Erik to betray Shaw.

Erik doesn’t have that option at the moment, unfortunately. 

The door inches open.

“Psst.” A head sticks itself round the door and hisses. “Pssst,” it says, again.

“Psssssssst,” Erik hisses back, and stands, moving forwards silently and swiftly.

“Mr Erik?” a young voice asks, uncertainly, and Erik manages at the last minute to convert his lethal strike into grabbing at the boy’s collar and dragging him into the room.

Charles stares up at the towering spirit, eyes wide and toes dangling above the floor.

“What,” Erik says, flatly, “Do you think to do here, Young Master?”

Charles winces. Erik releases him, quickly.

“Please don’t call me that,” Charles says. Erik glares. “My name is Charles.” 

“Charles…” Erik purrs, licking his lips. “Hasn’t anyone taught you it’s dangerous to give your name to a demon?”

“Of course.” Charles’s eyes are bright in the dim light from the barred window. “But you aren’t a demon. Are you, Erik?”

Erik gapes. That is _not_ common knowledge. It takes a bit more than Sight to identify Erik as non-mortal AND non-demon. Even Shaw thinks Erik is some form of demon, albeit a pretty rare kind. 

“How did you…?” _Know that?_ Erik means to say, but Charles rolls his eyes.

“I did know some things—my father was teaching me before Lord Shaw—took me.” He looks down, bites his lip. “I can tell the difference between a demon and a spirit.” 

Erik folds his arms. This is all very interesting, but the boy doubtless has more reasons for being here than displaying that he knows too much.

“So. You know I am not a demon. You prefer to be called Charles. Why are you here, Charles?”

“To help free you,” Charles says, all innocent and sincere. “It’s not, not right.” 

Erik has to laugh.

“Little trader,” he says, between his teeth. “Shaw has had me, and had me bound to his will these past hundred years and more. What makes you think, proud whelp, you can _help me?_ ” 

“Little trader?” Charles frowns. “I’m eleven.”

“A great age indeed.” Erik’s mind is racing. This must be a trick. A trap. Shaw must have sent him, or the boy is seeking to ensnare Erik for his own use, or—or— _Mortals have the capacity for altruism, but they very rarely act on it,_ he reminds himself.

“All I want to know is—if I find a way to free you—will you swear not to hurt me?” Charles shivers, but he keeps his chin up, holds Erik’s gaze with his own.

“What else?” Erik demands harshly. _What else will you take from me?_ he wonders. He has little left to give; after Sebastian’s bindings, Sebastian’s orders, Sebastian’s collar are gone.

“Would you swear it?” Charles persists. “That’s all I want.”

 _“Why?”_ Erik asks, bewildered and no less furious for it.

“You’re a person. It’s not right,” Charles says. Erik looks the question at him. Charles sighs and explains. “You don’t like him, you don’t want to be here. It hurts you. And Shaw wants you to be here and he took me away and I don’t like him. At all.”

“What makes you think that?” Erik sneers, mouth on automatic. Charles sits cross-legged on the floor, and sighs again.

“I—I do have the Sight,” he tells Erik, glancing over his shoulder. “I can see things.” Erik snorts. “You aren’t a demon, but he’s used demon bindings on you—that means you wouldn’t be here unless you were forced… and they _hurt_ you. I can feel it when you’re teaching me.” 

Tentatively Charles puts a hand out as if to pat Erik’s bare foot. Erik steps backwards, quickly.

“No more _touching!_ ” he snarls as he squats, lowering himself to Charles’s level, but staying ready to move. 

Charles nods. “Very well.” And folds his hands under his arms, as if in imitation of Erik’s earlier stance. He waits.

Erik thinks. What does this boy want out of this trade? Erik’s co-operation? His _friendship?_ Erik does not _do_ friendship. “I don’t see why you ask for nothing else,” he mutters. “I do not see how you hope to gain from this.”

“I’ve—I’ve seen what happens when people are selfish with magic,” Charles says. Shadows flicker in the boy’s eyes. “And _I_ never asked to be here either. He just… he just took me. And now I’m supposed to be grateful.” Charles’s face twists. “It’s like he forgot I never asked to learn magic from him.”

Ah. Sebastian’s favourite mistake, that one. Erik’s had to protect him before from the consequences of forcing from people what could have come freely. It’s not been a source of hope, until now. He’s surprised the mortal isn’t compelling Erik to free him, too. Maybe he thinks he’ll be able to get away after Erik escapes. 

“If,” Erik says, slowly. “If. You find a way of freeing me; I swear my actions when I am free will not harm you.” There. That should be acceptable, and as this is a trade—freedom for his vow—Erik will be bound by it. His word is the only thing Erik would be bound by, if he had the choice.

Charles nods solemnly. 

“Show me the collar,” he says. “I saw a drawing in one my father’s books. I think I can see how, but—”

“The collar’s the least of it,” Erik says, harshly.

“It’s the anchor point to the rest of the spells,” Charles points out. “If I can get it off of you, you can sever the other bonds, right?”

He is right. Erik nods. The other spells require Sebastian’s direct and active will to hold them if Erik struggles against them. Right now, Sebastian is asleep. If the collar is gone before he wakes… Erik could be free and gone before Sebastian compels his yielding again. 

“How are you going to—” he runs an uneasy hand over his hated collar. It stings and burns his fingers, as always. Charles _grins._

“I came prepared.” And he pulls out a small silver file. A _file?_

“A file?” Erik says, startled. “A silver file? Do you honestly think that will—”

“My friend Armando made it with me. Ages ago.” Charles’s face darkens. “Shaw killed him for being a _lesser race_ and having magic. Then he took me.”

“Lesser race?” Erik bows his head, baring the back of his neck, moving the collar within Charles’s reach.

“He was from the South.” Charles spits on his finger, and rubs the file with it. “Dark.” His tone changes. “I’m going have to bleed on your collar, now.” Erik sets his palms flat against the floor, and steels himself for a long wait.

“My master is not known for his wide acceptance of human variety,” Erik murmurs. Charles gives a little gasp of pain as he slices at his finger. Erik doesn’t move.

“Not going to be your master much longer,” Charles says, determined. He starts filing.

 

The night is turning towards dawn before Erik begins to believe that Charles is right, that the spells can be broken. Charles has squeezed more of his own blood—innocent blood, willingly given—onto the harsh iron, and has managed to destroy or alter half the symbols with the little file.

Erik can feel the spell breaking.

“Hurry,” he urges Charles. “Hurry.”

There’s a final little snapping sound, and the collar falls away, bouncing to the floor with a heavy clang. Neither Erik nor Charles moves to touch it. They stay crouched on the floor, motionless. Slowly, Erik raises his head to stare at Charles. The boy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

Erik stands up and draws a deep breath. Releases it.

“Did it work?” Charles asks, crouched at Erik’s feet. His eyes are bright with hope.

With a thought, a word and a gesture, Erik tears away the old spells, commands and compulsions Shaw had him tangled in. It costs him, in power and pain, but he is _free._

“Yes,” Erik says, and Charles starts at the difference in his voice. “Thank you, Charles.”

Charles swallows, nervously. Erik raises an eyebrow. It’s a little late for regret.

“Do not fear, little trader,” Erik says, gently amused. Charles, of all the people in the castle, should not fear him. “I hold to my deals.”

Charles’s mouth is opening, he’s saying something, but Erik isn’t listening. He is free, he belongs to himself again, and he lifts from the floor, hovers for a second more and then he steps _through_ and he is gone, gone, gone, never to return.

Well. Until he kills Sebastian, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik realises he made a mistake, and goes back for Charles.
> 
> Shaw's treatment of Charles makes Erik very angry. 
> 
> Shaw regrets that.

Erik revels in his freedom for far too long, he later realises. 

He sprawls on his face, luxuriously wallowing in the dark cool dirt of his caves for half a day before he thinks to shed his physical form and absorb the energies that have lain patiently waiting for him since he was barred from them.

Their taste is sweet; and the _power_ that fills him once he’s drunk his fill makes him a little giddy. He spends some time healing the wounds left by his escape, filling out the gouges left in his self by centuries of enslavement, and he laughs. He is free. Nothing binds him, no one commands him. Free.

There are only a few small pieces of metal in his caves; survivors of his long absence, He makes blades and needles, swords and shields and knives, he renews his old skills of metal manipulation and delights in dancing his creations to his will, before laying them quietly aside.

He even allows himself to sleep awhile.

Finally, finally, a day or a week or month later, the consequences of this catch up with him, as, if Erik had been thinking at all, he should have known they would. He is a trader. That is how Shaw caught him, and how he was freed. 

A sharp pain slices through him, and Erik shudders. He hastily resumes his physical form, but it does not stop hurting. For a moment he panics, fearing he’s missed a hook or line left in him by Shaw, before he realises this pain is different. It’s familiar from times long before Sebastian Shaw, and dreadful in its simplicity.

It’s the pain of a damaged deal. But Erik has only made one trade.

 _Charles,_ Erik thinks, in horror.

The young mortal is the only person Erik has traded with in centuries. The deal was simple: After Erik was free, his actions would not harm Charles. And so, Erik left the boy unharmed when he fled. Yet now Erik is stretched and shaking, shot through with agony. Charles has come to harm through Erik’s actions, somehow.

 _I didn’t do a thing!_ he thinks, angry and fearful. _I never even touched the child! I just…_

Oh.

 _I just left him there._ Erik feels sickened by himself. _In Sebastian Shaw’s castle. Alone._

A ten year old boy; a boy smart enough to know Erik as no demon, and stupid enough to release him for nothing—exactly how long would it have taken Sebastian to identify who was at fault for the loss of one of his greater treasures?

Erik is not ready to face Shaw, not strong enough to kill him, either. 

That does not matter. He must find his little trader and make things right, or he will die. Trade spirits do not break their word or renege on their deals and remain trade spirits—or anything at all—for long. 

So. Charles has been harmed. But he is still alive, else Erik would likely have died along with him, or near as makes no difference. That means he can still make good on his word. Erik draws trousers (Shaw insisted on him wearing clothing) over his physical form, swallows deeply, and steps _through_ to wherever Charles is suffering the harm Erik has caused him.

Night. A camp: Shaw’s small army scattered about, tents and cook fires and men drinking, dicing, arguing. Or looking for whores. It’s familiar enough scene to him; Shaw must be in a conquering mood again. Erik fades a little, becoming hard to notice, and follows the pain. Where would Sebastian keep Charles? 

He recognises Shaw’s tent, and has to force himself to enter it, even though he can see it’s empty.

It’s the same ludicrously over-decorated bower it’s always been. The bed is draped with blankets and furs, the folding table piled high with papers. A brazier glows warmly in one corner, heated iron dispelling the late-night chill. One lamp flickers dimly. Erik approaches warily. This could be a trap.

In the corner sits a very familiar iron-bound chest. It hadn’t been out of Erik’s cell for a while; has Shaw already replaced him? Perhaps whoever Shaw has trapped in there is the key to finding Charles. Erik finds he doesn’t much care; anyone controlled by Shaw should be free, spirit or mortal. 

Erik looks for the key. Shaw used to wear it, but it itched at him, so when they were travelling, he’d often—He stops himself. They key is not necessary. The chest is metal. Metal answers Erik’s will now that he is free. He gestures. A sharp snapping sound echoes in the tent as the lock yields to him. 

The lid rises a little. Erik can hear laboured breathing. Cautiously, he approaches the chest and opens it. Whatever’s inside is not the size of a full-grown man, but it whimpers and flinches from the light. Erik leans over and—

He chokes down a bubble of hate and rage. The boy folded into the chest is naked, blindfolded, shackled, half starved, and covered in wounds. 

Sebastian Shaw put Charles in Erik’s first cage.

“Charles?” Erik lifts the boy out and into his arms swiftly. A whisper to the shackles and they pour from Charles’s limbs to the floor. They were enspelled, as the chest had been, but Erik has called metal since he was first alive. Free, he can compel any metal.

Charles whimpers again, lost in feverish nightmare. Erik raises a hand and gently pulls the blindfold from the boy’s face.

Charles stares blindly, pupils dilated wide, eyes unfocused and white-edged. He’s shaking. Erik looks around; if the boy is cold, then—he spots Shaw’s fur-lined cloak, and pulling at the clasps, lifts the cloak towards him. He swaddles Charles in it quickly, but the shaking doesn’t stop.

“Erik?” Charles half sobs. “Erik, is that you?” He blinks, furiously. “Please—are you real?”

“It’s me. I am sorry, Charles,” Erik says, and for a second Charles clings to him, before he tenses, babbling.

“I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean to, Erik—run!” There are tears in his eyes. “He said-!”

“Hush, little trader,” Erik says, softly. “I am here. I will not leave you again.” His arms tighten around Charles entirely of their own accord. Even now, even here, the child cares about Erik’s freedom. Erik will not fail him again.

“Nonono—he’ll come back—he said, he said you would, too, and he’s, he’s—” Charles gasps and sobs. Erik’s neck is wet with his tears. “It’s a trap,” the boy insists. “Erik, I’m sorry.”

“Do not be,” Erik says, gently. “I had to come back for you.” Charles whimpers again, despairing. “And now we shall both be free of him.”

“Are you sure, Erik?”

Shadows move at the mouth of the tent, and Erik whirls as Lord Sebastian Shaw, master mage and commander of armies, steps into his command tent. Erik takes a deep breath. He feels all the lines of force and energy, the metal of weapons and tools. A sharp green flash bursts and dissipates harmlessly in the tent. Shaw looks surprised.

Erik tilts his head. Shaw tried a control spell just then; it did not work on him.  
He smiles a slow, feral smile. Shaw has no idea of Erik’s abilities, his powers now he is unbound. Unbound, free as the air, and _enforcing a trade._

“Ah. I knew the brat would draw his stolen toy back soon enough,” Shaw says, almost cheerfully, masking his growing unease well. “Charles. Release your control of Erik into my hand, and I’ll let you live.”

“I can’t,” Charles says, in a flash of his old defiance. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

Erik tucks Charles’s head under his chin and bares his teeth at Shaw. Shaw fires a pain cantrip at them. Erik side-steps, so it impacts on his shoulder, and not on Charles. He’s old, and the pain of the damaged deal has faded. He can take far worse than this. Charles is―Charles is hurt, and Shaw will pay for that.

Erik grins.

“I am not bound, Sebastian Shaw.” He delights in watching Shaw’s face fall. “Charles did not bind me further when he released me. Nothing save my own will compels me here.” He holds Charles a little more tightly. “I have come for him, not at his call.” He takes a step towards the door.

“So you’re here to trade?” Incredibly, Shaw relaxes. “You can’t harm me,” he reminds the spirit. “Your spells protect me, after all.”

Erik shakes his head. No. Shaw is wrong. He will not age, he will not die; so much Erik cannot undo, not yet. But harm—it’s always possible to harm a mortal, even one you’ve traded with. He holds Charles closer to his chest for a moment, in guilt.

“Trade, is it? Not with you. Never with you.” He laughs, harshly. Charles’s breathing is rapid and shallow against Erik’s throat, and he’s trembling. 

Erik doesn’t blame him.

Under the rage at what’s been done to Charles, there is terror in his own heart, too. He can’t kill Shaw, or seriously hurt him until his own spellwork fades, and that will take a lifetime at least. But he has his duty to his trade now, his word to keep, and that strengthens him. Erik shifts Charles in his arms and keeps moving towards the exit.

“Erik,” Shaw says. “Erik, I command you!” Desperation has entered his voice. He fires off more spells, gesturing and chanting. Erik jerks his head, refusing the bindings. “ERIK!” Shaw rages on.

Erik concentrates. Likely he only has one chance at this. He gestures, once, and every piece of metal within a mile fragments into tiny, lethally sharp pieces. He gestures again, and not a single one of those fragments will stop moving until they’ve tasted human blood. Screams and howls and choking noises bubble up immediately.

Erik grins in satisfaction. The shrapnel will fly, until they have shredded what’s around them into fine, fine pieces. It’s a wide harvest they will reap, but Erik well knows that none in Shaw’s army is innocent, and if he can’t kill Shaw yet—the life-giving spells still going strong—he can weaken him.

Shaw’s eyes go wide as the shrapnel arcs past his face, slicing the tent to ribbons, a storm of metal howling around him. He falters, raising his hands to cast a spell. And in that moment, Erik breaches the threshold of the tent, and steps _through_ and away, bringing Charles safely out of hell with him, as he should have done to start with.

“Sorry, sorry,” Charles babbles under the cloak, confused. “Sorry, Erik.” He squints into the rising dawn Erik has walked them to.

Erik stops. He has no idea where they are. Gently, he lays Charles down on the fresh grass underfoot and sits down near him.

“What are you sorry for, Charles?” he asks.

“That. I. Shaw, he found out, found out it was me—he said, he said you’d come back, if I called, and he’d have you again,” Charles stammers. Erik lays a quick hand on the boy’s forehead and frowns when he feels the fever there.

“My fault,” the boy weeps. “He said—”

“Shaw is a liar and a beast,” Erik says calmly. “You did not call me,” he points out. “And he could not bind me. Look around you, little trader. You are—we are free of him, Charles.”

Charles gazes around a country road passing through arable country in springtide, before looking back to Erik in wild hope. Erik rearranges the cloak around his bony little shoulders.

“But—you’re still here,” Charles says, confused. “Why—I didn’t bind you, I didn’t—why are you still with me? Why did you come back?” He rubs his eyes with a bloody and bruised hand.

Erik winces. Guilt and shame bind his tongue for a long moment.

“I should not have left you there,” he says, then. “My actions, once free, led to your harm. So I came to where you were, to take you away.”

 _”Oh,_ ” is all Charles says, but his eyes—those brilliant blue eyes—shine. 

“Now, come on.” Erik scoops Charles and his cloak up again. “We have to find you food and shelter, healing.”

“What about you?” Charles whimpers as he is lifted.

“Sorry.” Erik adjusts his grip. “I am healed,” he points out. “You freed me, and I went away to heal myself.”

“Then you came back,” Charles mumbles, wriggling into Erik’s grip. “Aren’t you cold?” he frets. “You don’t have a shirt.” Charles wraps a skinny arm around Erik’s neck.

“Or shoes. I do not need them.” Erik starts walking. “You don’t have any clothes at all. We will make do. For now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erick meets up with some helpful people. Naturally he is very suspicious.

Charles wakes up. Somewhere overhead, a bird is singing. The air is cool on his cheek. Maybe there’s a window’s open? Stealthily (he’s learned a lot about the benefits of stealth, recently) he keeps his eyes shut, and listens. He can’t hear Lord Shaw’s voice; that’s good… 

But nearby a male voice and a female voice are arguing about something. That’s not so good. Charles resolves to play d—to play asleep until he knows where he is and who’s there with him, and why he hurts so much less than he did before.

Something cool but stinging touches his bad arm, and he whimpers, just a little, when the arm is moved, before he can stop himself and play sleeping for longer.

“Sorry.” 

Charles doesn’t move, keeps his breathing light, and hopes. It does not work. “Hey,” someone says, softly. It’s a man’s voice, one he does not recognise. “Kid, you waking up?” Charles keeps his eyes shut. Sometimes he gets left alone if they think he’s unconscious. Someone sighs. “I’m just patching you up. Someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

Charles doesn’t move.

“Wonder if that’s got anything to do with all the fuss over at High Hingham.” The man continues talking as he winds a bandage around Charles’s bad arm. “You know, everyone was really surprised when Lord Shaw and all his army just vanished into a pink mist. Relieved, too, way I heard it in the market. And then we meet you, and your friend, just walking out of it. Not a mark on him, by the way.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, too busy trying not to shake or vomit on hearing Shaw’s name to make sense of the rest of it. But it’s good to know Erik wasn’t hurt.

“Right,” the man says to himself. “Kid, this might hurt, but I’m getting these wounds clean, so you’ll heal better. That’s all.” The strange man wipes something cool over the rest of the cuts and burns on his arm, and then moves to his chest. It stings, but it’s nowhere near as bad as—as anything Charles has had done to him before. He stays limp, though, just in case.

The arguing voices get louder.

“Keep it down!” orders the stranger, in cheerful good humour. “Some of us are working, and some of us are resting.”

“I keep telling you, we don’t _want_ to trade you anything for his care.” The woman sounds closer now.

“I,” a familiar voice says. “I—do not—I must protect him. He should not be beholden.”

“Well, then, why don’t you be beholden for him?” The woman is clearly losing patience now. “Seeing as you keep saying he’s your responsibility.”

There’s a pause.

“I would be willing to be so held.” Erik—that’s Erik’s voice, Charles realises—says, slow and heavy. “But could I not _trade_ , instead?”

“Erik?” Charles whispers. He reaches out with his good hand, hoping, hoping―

Erik’s hand wraps around his smaller one, very gently.

“Charles.” Charles opens his eyes to see Erik peering down at him, face set in its usual sternly handsome lines. He looks tense, but not angry. The sunlight is bright all around him.

“You really did come back for me,” Charles says, faintly disbelieving, as recent memory returns. Curled in the box, helpless, knowing Shaw was wrong, that he _couldn’t_ call Erik back. Trying to stay strong enough to want Erik free. Hurting in body and soul. 

And then the chest lid rising, sounds leaking in, and being lifted carefully, held gently, and _taken away_ from all the horrible things. He’d been half certain it was a dream, or a lie or a trick, when Erik wrapped Shaw’s cloak around him and carried him to safety. When he fell asleep in Erik’s arms, he’d been terrified he’d wake up back in the box.

“I should not have left you there,” Erik frets, regretful. “Shaw hurt you.”

“Yes, I know.” Charles says, a little sharply. He looks sideways then, and sees a friendly open face, covered in freckles and crowned with red hair, peering around Erik’s broad shoulders. He seems pleasant enough, but Shaw was handsome and often seemed cheerful, too. Charles eyes him warily.

“Hey, kid.” And that’s the voice of the man who’s been treating his wounds. “I hear your name is Charles? I’m Sean.” Charles waits, but Sean does not volunteer a surname. 

“Hello, Mr Sean,” he says, at last, fidgeting with the cloak wrapped around his lower half with the hand that isn’t holding onto Erik. It hurts his arm, but he needs to do something.

“Just Sean, kid.” The red head laughs. “Allow me to introduce my most lovely wife. Wife?” He looks around wildly, as if he’s expecting a wife to spring out of the ground, or solidify from the dew on the grass.

“I’m here. Hey, sweetie. I’m Moira.” Her voice is warm and crisply kind.

Erik shifts sideways, and Charles can see a dark-haired woman over his shoulder. He can see she’s angry, too, and he can’t hide his cringe from her. Instantly, Erik shifts back, blocking her access to Charles. Charles can see the sky over Erik’s head, he realises. They’re still outside, but he’s not lying on the ground.

“Can I sit up?” Charles asks, hopefully. Maybe if he sits up, Erik might put an arm around him. It was nice, when Erik had carried him. He’d—well, he’s been in a lot of pain, but being cradled in Erik’s arms had made Charles feel safe, protected. 

And Erik _had_ protected him. Had obliterated an army—Shaw’s army—and taken him away.

“Yeah.” Sean steps aside. “Erik; would you—” He gets no further before Erik is helping Charles sit up, and letting Charles lean on him for support. Now that he’s upright, Charles can see he’s lying on the lowered tailgate of a covered wagon. He bets it belongs to Sean and Moira.

“Let me get started on your legs.” Sean says, and kneels, so Charles’s shins are dangling at eye level. Erik breathes in. His grip on Charles tightens, just a little. Startled, Charles realises Erik is wearing a shirt. His fingers close on the material questioningly, as Sean starts dabbing at his left knee.

“Apparently, men may not go about shirtless while carrying injured children.” Erik sounds slightly bemused. “I have not been in the company of mor—of men much recently; I had not realised such… social conventions were so imperative.”

Charles smiles a little.

“You’re gonna need boots, too,” Sean tells Charles’s ankle. Erik stiffens—Charles can feel his muscles tighten through the shirt of contention. He leans back a little harder. Erik’s arm moves across his chest, shielding him. “Winter’s not gone just yet. You’ll both get frostbite.”

“I have told you,” Erik says, hanging onto his composure by his teeth. “I have nothing to—”

“Trade, right.” Moira puts her hands on her hips. “Your boy’s hurt; you should swallow your goddamn pride and—”

“It is not pride.” Erik says. “And Charles is not my boy. He belongs to himself.”

“Erik—” Charles twists round to look his rescuer in the face. Erik looks down at him, grey eyes intent. “Erik, I don’t think—they’re not trying to trick you.” Erik, as a trade spirit, lives and dies by his trades, by his keeping to his word. Charles suspects that Erik does not want to be bound by any mortal, ever again. More than suspects. Knows.

And yet, here he is, engaging with mortals, risking himself. For Charles. A lump swells in Charles’s throat. Erik wants Charles to be helped; and he’s prepared to do anything to see that he gets what he needs. He leans into Erik. Erik makes a low wordless sound. Charles blinks. He is so tired.

“Why is offering help a trick?” Moira asks, seemingly of the sky.

“I was trapped before,” Erik reminds Charles. “But you need aid I cannot give. I— I-if that is the price of it—” He looks to Moira. “I will pay, but—” 

“NO one is going to ask you for ANYTHING!” Moira snaps. “We’re _healers_. This is what we _do_!”

“Ah,” Sean says thoughtfully. “Yeah, I think I see—”

“What?” Erik snaps, sharp and defensive. The arm not around Charles comes up, fingers spread. He will not let Charles be harmed again. Moira steps back, hands raised and empty.

“Erik.” Sean squats back on his heels and looks up at him, steady and unafraid. “You’re not human, are you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erick and Moira and Sean and Charles work a few things out. No one is stabbed. Amazingly enough.

The last few days have been filled with wonderful things, as far as Sean Cassidy, currently travelling sworn-Healer, is concerned. Firstly, the horses have stayed healthy, and have lost no shoes. Secondly, his wife, Moira of the iron spine and deft hands, still loves him.

Thirdly, Lord Sebastian Shaw, local Warlord-Mage and all-around unpleasant person is most probably dead. The vast majority of his army _certainly_ is, although no one really wants to find out what precisely turned them all into light pink mist in the middle of the night. 

Normally, no sworn-healer would rejoice in such death, but as Sean (and his wonderful wife) had been summoned to serve him, and had been travelling to the encamped army in fear and despair when the news of said army’s collapse had reached them, Sean is prepared to stretch the point. It’s enough to make him optimistic about the way of the world, for once.

So when he and his wife and the wagon come across an underfed, shirtless and barefoot man walking through the chill spring day carrying a large bundle wrapped in furs, Sean allows his curiosity to demand information. He calls out to the walking stranger. The man swings round, eyes wild, and although he is angry, Sean can read the fear and desperation underneath.

He’s apparently unarmed, though, so Sean loops the reins over the board, calls to Moira, and drops to the road in careful, easy moves. Sworn-healers are sworn to, well, heal, and help all in need, but not everybody knows or believes that.

The movement also shifts the bundle, and a small hand flops from beneath the heavy folds of the cloak. A small, bloody hand. Sean’s eyes narrow.

“Need help?” he asks, calm and casual. “I’m—we’re healers.” The stranger looks at him for a very long moment, staring as fiercely as if he can see through Sean’s skin and skull to the brain beneath.

“I,” he says, and Sean waits. And then. “They hurt him.”

“Will you let me see?” Sean asks gently, noting the _they_ , and the other man’s angry anxiety. He wouldn’t be that surprised if the stranger was hurt himself, and was hiding it. The stranger flips the cloak back, wary. Sean leans in, and gasps. 

The child in the other man’s arms is male, perhaps ten years old, and has been tortured.

“Right.” Sean swallows, and runs a hand through his hair. “Um.” Shaking himself, he turns to the rear of the wagon. “Let’s get the tailboard down, you can rest him on there and… Moira!”

Moira pokes her head out of the wagon

“What is it—oh.” Her hand goes to her mouth. The stranger flips the cloak back over his charge and glares at her.

“Can you sort the horses?” Sean says over his shoulder as he hurries. He starts wrestling with the pins to the tailgate; the iron is old and really needs oiling.

The stranger reaches past Sean, and with one hand, pulls down the tail gate and holds it steady. The pins slide underneath almost without Sean having to touch them. Sean puts that little wonder aside; the child, the _tortured_ child is his priority right now. He leaps up into the wagon and pulls out his emergencies case.

He stops to wash his hands and does not stare as the stranger lays his burden down. Moira walks around the corner of the wagon. The stranger looks up at her, wary and watchful.

“How long—” Moira begins, her voice sharp with horrified concern. There’s one of Sean’s father’s old shirts in her hand. She hands it to the stranger. “Put that on, to start with. You can’t go about shirtless, not like this.”

Automatically, he takes the shirt. He eyes Moira doubtfully. She folds her arms and stares at him. “Shaw had him,” the stranger blurts. “I took him away.” He shifts from bare foot to bare foot as he pulls the shirt on.

“Well done,” Sean says absently, and pours astringent wound wash into the metal travel bowl. He picks up a clean rag.

“What are you doing?” demands the stranger. Sean glances at Moira behind him—she’s better at soothing panicky family than he is. And she’s clearly decided they’re not going to be stopping with just medical treatment, not if she brought out clothes for the uninjured.

“He’s washing the dirt and sickness out of the injuries,” Moira says, as Sean bends to do just that. 

“What—if this helps—do you want in exchange?” Sean doesn’t answer; he doesn’t catch what Moira says, in response, which is just as well, in all probability. He frowns at one of the boy’s shoulders; it looks swollen and sore. Maybe it was dislocated and put back in place

The boy makes a slight sound, whimpering in pain. Sean murmurs soothingly at him, but the child keeps his eyes shut. His breathing is rapid and shallow with pain.

“I―” The stranger says and looks at Moira. “if you harm him further, I’ll kill you.” He says this flatly, as if he’s describing the colour of the sky. Moira scowls.

“We’re _healers_ ,” she insists, through her teeth.

Sean lets that argument fade as he focuses. The injuries are severe, and certainly painful, but they’re not life threatening, as long as they can get some food and fluids in the boy, and keep the wounds from festering. Wound fever’s another risk, but Sean has medicines for that, too.

Whoever hurt the boy knew exactly what he was doing, and did it over several days, at least, judging by the age of the oldest cuts and bruises. He swallows down sickness at the thought that, if the army had not been destroyed, he and Moira would have been compelled to serve with—or just serve—the person who did this.

The arguing gets louder; the kid wakes up, and any concerns Sean might have had, that he was maybe assisting a torturer, fade. Charles—that’s boy’s name—looks for Erik—that’s the stranger’s name—and when he finds him, his face is full of such relief, Sean has to hide a smile.

Also, the boy won’t let go of Erik. Erik becomes just a little more reasonable, with Charles awake and responsive, and curled in his arms, but he’s still worried about debts and trades and gifts. The boy lets fall the name of his torturer, and from the way Erik responds—or doesn’t- Sean has a shrewd idea of who they can all thank for the destruction of the army.

He does wonder, as he smears on burn cream and wound salves, as he wraps Charles’s entire body, it seems like, in bandages, _how_ one kid and one barefoot and shirtless man managed to bring such complete destruction to an entire army; to the army of a mage, no less. 

He can tell the boy has strong magical potential; he cannot read _anything_ from Erik. Which is, Sean thinks, tucking in the ends of another bandage, odd. His Sight isn’t strong, at all; not as strong as his healing gifts are, but he can usually read a little bit of what a person is feeling or thinking.

Erik is getting tenser and tenser—which is also odd, normally his beloved wife can calm anybody down in three sentences, and it’s affecting the kid. And then any number of tiny things fall into place in Sean’s head, and he _knows._

“Erik,” he asks, sitting back on his heels, presenting a smaller and less threatening target. “You’re not human, are you?”

Erik _growls._

“He’s not a demon!” Charles says breathlessly, sitting up and trying to put his scrawny, underfed, banged-up body between Erik and Sean and Moira simultaneously. “Shaw thought he was, but he _wasn’t_!”

“I know,” Sean reassures him. “That I could tell before we stopped.”

“I,” Erik falters. He squares his shoulders. “I am for, for trade.” He glances down at Charles, and for a second Sean would swear he sees real affection there. “I. My last trade went awry. Charles was hurt. So.” He thrusts out his chin. “I will ask again. What are you willing to take in trade for helping him? It is my debt.”

“You’ve basically only got a pair of pants to your name,” Sean advises him, cheerfully. “Unless you’re suggesting granting a wish or two?” Erik goes paler.

“I have myself,” he says, and Charles cries out.

“No! You only just escaped!” He’s crying. “Please, don’t—we got you free, Erik, we did!” Erik hugs Charles closer, and shakes his head.

Sean swallows. That’s not—did Erik think they’d been trying to bind him? For a half-pound of ointments and some bandages needed by a sick kid, they’d enslave a sentient being? He tips out the herb water that’s left after washing Charles, onto the spring-fresh grass, and tries not to over-react.

“There is no debt,” Moira says, soft but certain. Erik frowns. “We are oath-sworn,” she adds in a calm aside to Charles, who slowly nods. Moira smiles, then, and Sean’s heart lifts. This right here, this is one of the reasons Sean loves her.

“I do not know what that is,” Erik says, stiffly.

“There is no debt.” Moira says, patient as a saint. “Sean and I, we swore that we would treat all who needed it, who came our way. It was the final part of our training.”

“It’s part of who we are,” Sean finds his voice to say. “You understand? We won’t—we _can’t_ take anything from you. Not for this.”

“Part of who you are,” Erik echoes. Relief rises off the spirit like steam.

“We take donations to charity, of course,” Moira says, in gentle good humour. “But only of money.”

“My father—my father has money.” Charles looks up at her hopefully. His face falls. “But that’s so far away.”

“You may have noticed,” Sean says, smiling, “that this is a travelling wagon.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik is stubborn, Charles gets worried, and Erik suprises Sean in the matter of three armed men.

These are very odd mortals. It has been some time since Erik interacted with anyone but Shaw and his cronies, but these people are… odd. There is no other word for it. They _give things away_ ; their whole trade is based on not receiving recompense. Erik cannot imagine how they intend to live.

Erik finds the whole thing rather difficult; but in the two days he’s been travelling with the Cassidy-MacTaggerts, he’s seen them both close enough that he does not believe that their generosity is a front for something worse. 

“Erik?” Charles sticks his head out of the wagon and blinks, sleepily. “I woke up and Mrs Moira said to get some fresh air.” 

He’s been sleeping a lot. Erik would be worried about that, but Moira had said that it was perfectly normal for sick or injured people to sleep a lot, and yes, the pallet in the wagon was large enough for Charles, the blankets and yes, the damn cloak would keep him warm enough.

She had gone on to say, also, that if Erik did not stop hovering, she, Moira, would make him regret it. Erik had believed her; and not wanting to burden the wagon with his weight one second longer than Charles needed him, as it would slow the horses and take even longer to return Charles to his family, something the boy was clearly desperate to do, he’d gotten out and started walking.

“I am here,” Erik says, from his preferred position by the front of the wagon. Sean slides along the bench to allow Charles to clamber through and sit next to him. The horses snort and continue their steady pace forwards. Erik judges Charles’s movement as he does so, and observes that the boy is less stiff. 

Moira was right he thinks, reluctantly; sleep is healing and necessary. For mortals, anyway. Erik needs to sleep about as much as he needs to breathe; it’s more comfortable to do so, but he can get by without. As it happens, Erik is not going to so much as try to rest until Charles is safe back with his family. He cannot risk further harm occurring to Charles. Or the healers.

He’s not sure what he’s going to do once Charles is home. May be he’ll go back to his caves.

“Are you tired?” Charles’s fingers twitch in the over-long cuffs of the old shirt he’s wearing. “You’ve been walking all day. And you still don’t have any shoes.” His shins, bare to the fresh air under the cut-down trousers that Moira pressed on him, are full of yellowing bruises and scabs. His feet are wrapped in cloth.

“So have the horses, and I’m not carrying anything.” Erik flashes up a quick smile.

“There’s room on the bench for three,” Sean says. Erik nods at him, but keeps walking.

“They have shoes,” Charles says. “And they eat,” he adds, pointedly.

“Food is… not necessary, for me, Charles,” Erik says, softly. 

It’s true. Food and sleep and shoes can all be done without, if Erik burns a little more of his energies, and he does not want to end up indebted again. Charles’s family might be able to give the healers money for Charles; Erik knows they won’t have any to spare for him, even if he did deserve recompense and not punishment.

“Yes, but you like it.” How the boy knows that, Erik cannot say.

Sean shakes the reins. The horses step out a little faster. Erik paces a little faster, trying to keep up without breaking into a run.

“There is not enough scrap metal for me to make myself—shoes—with,” Erik says. He is _not_ short of breath. “I am not mortal,” he reminds Charles and Sean. “I don’t need— It would be wasted.”

They move on without speaking after that. Erik finds he needs to concentrate on keeping up with the wagon more and more. But he is strong, and he will not ask for anything from anyone while that is so.

“Erik,” Sean says, after a little pause in which Charles stares down at his rescuer, clearly worried he will get left behind. “Get on the damn wagon.”

Erik gets on the damn wagon.

Charles smiles up at him shyly, and shifts closer to Sean, pulling Erik all the way onto the seat.

“We’re making good time,” Sean says, cheerily. “We’ll be heading into West Chester in a week, maybe.

“I know where to go then.” Charles leans on Erik. Erik raises his arm and lowers it over Charles’s back. The boy will only get chilled if he doesn’t. Charles snuggles into Erik’s side with a sigh.

Sean starts whistling.

“You got plans, after?” he asks ten minutes later, when Charles has slipped into a doze.

“Plans?” Erik shoots him a quick glance, but the question—and the questioner—appears innocent.

“We’re heading for his home,” Sean says. “I was wondering if you had travel plans, after.”

“I will not burden you further with my need, if so,” Erik says, quickly. “I—”

“Wouldn’t be a burden, man,” Sean says, gently. “I just—Moira says you learn quickly, that’s all.”

Erik frowns. What has that to with his plans, as the redheaded mortal calls them? Erik does want to learn about healing, partly because Charles is in such need of it, and also because it might well be a useful thing to be able to trade. Already he can think of ways his powers could replace some of Moira’s medicines.

All Erik really knows to do with his powers and spells is to hurt and tear down and kill. He can prolong life, but he cannot heal or create. Charles mutters in his sleep, turning his face against Erik’s shirt. Erik brings up a hand, rubs it lightly over the boy’s hair, and he settles again.

“You’re good with him,” Sean says, then. “He’s a lucky boy.” Erik looks down at the top of Charles’s head for a long moment.

“I owe him,” Erik says eventually, also softly. “He freed me, first.”

“How long were you trapped?” Sean turns back to the road.

Erik shrugs. “A century? Two? I am not sure.”

Sean grimaces in sympathy. Then he stiffens, looking up to the road ahead. “Erik.” He pulls on the reins, slowing the horses to an easy amble.

“I see them.” Erik cocks his head. There are three of them, armoured men on horseback, blocking the road. They look familiar. Not as individuals, but as a type.

Trouble.

“Charles,” Sean says, and Erik nods.

“Charles,” Erik murmurs. “Wake up.” Charles stirs.

“Whuh?” He blinks and sits up. “What’s-?”

“Go back inside the wagon. Tell my lady to sit tight,” Sean says. “Could be trouble.”

Charles scrambles back over the board into the covered part of the wagon.

Erik casts his senses out, and wants to curse. There is so little metal around, save for the weapons the men carry. And then, the realisation hits him, and he has to hide a grin of anticipation. Erik puts a hand on Sean’s wrist.

“Do not fear,” he says, low and intent. “I can keep us safe.”

“Let’s just keep calm,” Sean mutters as they draw closer. “We don’t have much, and it shows, we can probably just brush through this with a little luck.”

“Do not fear,” Erik says again. “I will keep us safe.”

“There’s three-!” Sean starts to protest, and then he smiles broadly at the horseman trotting up to them. “Good day to you, sir!”

“Who’re you?” the man demands. His eyes flick over Erik, dismissing him as poor and not worth his time.

“Healer Cassidy and family,” Sean puts the right amount of nervous respect in his voice, and no more. “You have anyone sick in your-?”

“What family?”

Sean swallows. “My wife, my nephew, my…” He looks at Erik “Brother in law.”

Erik feels strangely warmed. They—Charles and he—are nothing to the mortals; eaters of their food and drainers of their supplies; and yet Sean is clearly trying to protect them by including them in his kin-list.

The other armoured men approach. The lead one unsheathes his sword. Points it at Erik’s throat. 

“Name.”

“My name is Erik,” Erik says. He leans forward, allowing the sword to scratch at his throat as it slides past. “What’s yours?”

“Get the wife and kid out here.” The man turns to Sean. “Army might be gone; but we’ve still got what it takes. Don’t mess with me.”

“Oh, she’s only just laid down to sleep,” Sean’s smile grows strained. “What do you w-?”

One of the soldiers sniggers, with a filthy grin. “I’ve got something as’ll wake her up but good.” Sean goes paler.

“Hey!” he shouts as one of the other men starts hacking at the traces, trying to cut the horses from the wagon. “Leave that!” The horses sidle and side-step, confused.

“Don’t make trouble,” Erik says, with a sly fleeting grin, to Sean. He doesn’t stop meeting the swordsman’s eyes. It’s not like Erik is going to let any weapons get this close to Charles while they still have cutting edges, after all.

“You,” the swordsman says. “Stand up. Get down here.” He backs his horse up a pace or two.

Erik slides out of the wagon neatly, and smiles at the horse.

“That is a fine horse,” he says, cheerfully.

“You simple, or what?” the swordsman asks. “Cut the godsdamn harnesses, already!” he shouts at his cursing compatriot. Sean stays frozen on the wagonbench.

“What,” Erik says, with a low growl. And then: “Are _you_ simple?”

“Why, you—”

“Turn around,” Erik says. “Turn around and go from here, and you will live.” He’s killed enough mortals in the last few days to be done with killing, except where necessary, for good.

The swordsman raises his weapon and chops down at Erik with it. Erik side-steps. The swordsman strikes down again. Erik seizes the sword by the blade with his right hand. There’s a small cry from within the wagon: Charles, frightened.

He will give them one more chance.

“Go from here,” he says, sincerely enough that all three of the marauding soldiers stare at him. “And you will live.”

They move to attack him immediately. Necessary it is, then.

Erik sucks in a deep breath, for the hell of it, squares his shoulders, and gestures.

All three soldiers drop dead, almost immediately, as their helmets grip their skulls and _twist_. There’s a few cracking noises, but no… unpleasantness for Charles to witness.

The mounted man slides out of his saddle with a _thump._

Sean stares at Erik, mouth open.

“They would have killed us,” Erik says, not quite defensively. “And they-they frightened Charles.”

“Yeah,” Sean agrees, slowly. He gives Erik a twisted grin. “They scared me, too.”

Erik finds he has nothing to say to that. Moira sticks her head out of the wagon.

“What is—” Sean turns to her, pulls her towards him, and kisses her.

“Sorry, love,” he says, releasing her. “But—we nearly died. Erik just saved all our lives. Likely your virtue, too.” He waves at the slumped men and the confused horses.

“Ah,” Moira says and turns to add over her shoulder, “He’s _fine_ , Charles, we’re all fine, stop panicking.”

“Charles?” Erik calls. “Stay in the wagon for now.” He doesn’t want Charles to see any of the next part.

“Yes, Erik,” Charles says, unsteadily.

Sean hands Moira the reins and jumps down from the wagon. He bends over the downed swordsman.

“I broke his neck.” Erik isn’t sure of what is happening now. “I don’t think you can—” 

Sean turns to him with a smile. “I saw. I was just wondering about his boots.”

“... His boots?” Erik echoes.

“If they’d fit you,” Sean says. “And that horse of his is a very fine horse.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herblore, advice and horses. 
> 
> Last chapter and an epilogue set about 15 years later.

It’s raining today. Erik adjusts his cloak (previously Shaw’s) around himself and Charles, and takes up the reins again. The horse they’re riding slides one ear around to check on this, and having decided its two strange riders are not in fact contemplating horse-related mischief, walks on.

“I think he’s getting used to you.” Moira reins in her mount. They both look at her, mildly mystified. “The horse,” she clarifies, amused.

“I’m sure of it, my love,” Sean calls from the wagon.

Erik blinks against the rain, and looks down at Charles’s happy freckled face. The spring sun has been kind to the boy’s pallor. The sun, and the time spent happy and safe and healing, instead of being tortured.

“You could stay drier and warmer in the wagon,” Erik points out. Humans get cold easily, he’s learned. He tightens his arms around Charles, as if he can keep the boy healthy by sheer force of will. Charles wrinkles his nose.

“I like it out here.” _With you,_ he doesn’t say. Erik hears it anyway, and is warmed.

“So.” Moira returns to her original speech. “If you wanted to put someone to sleep for a while, what would you _not_ do?”

“Hit them over the head,” Erik says. Charles giggles.

“Yes…” Moira says, patiently. “And?”

“Can you make people go to sleep?” Charles wriggles in Erik’s arms, trying to turn and see him better.

“That’s what I am trying to learn.” Erik flashes a smile at Moira. 

“No, I mean, you know, with your—” Charles waggles one hand.

“No,” Erik says. “Not in a way that might not harm them,” he adds, more gently. Charles doesn’t need any more details than that, he feels, about the things he can do to mortals, and the things Sebastian had him do against his will.

“Ways to sleep?” Moira prompts again.

“Lemonbalm, for nerves or sleeplessness, a tea from the leaves,” Erik recites. “Valerian, a tea or a tincture of the roots only. Lavender—”

He goes on, and wonders if he needs to speak to Moira privately about Charles’s sleeping, or lack of it. The boy is recovering well and fast from Shaw’s attentions in other ways; the wounds have scabbed over, the bruises faded almost to nothingness. But he doesn’t sleep well.

Erik notices because he has good hearing and also has not slept much since he was freed. He’s allowing himself a watch of the night, no more, to stay in the habit, and he is not so very tired yet. That makes plenty of quiet time for Erik to guard the campsite, perform small repairs or reinforcement spells on every piece of the healers’ equipment and gear he can lay his hands or his spells on, and watch Charles.

Charles is having nightmares, and Erik doesn’t know what to do about that. _Perhaps they will stop when he has been returned home,_ he thinks. The idea of Charles back where he belongs hurts, a little.

Because Erik will not be there. 

He has formed a minor bond with Charles; a small trade of freedoms and rescues will do that. But Erik very much doubts Charles’s family will in any way welcome _him_. He’s not a fool, for all he was foolish enough to get caught by Shaw. 

Erik is not human. Erik is the reason Charles got hurt. They’re quite within their right to want to hurt him back, as punishment or recompense or—Erik redirects his thoughts. Not that they’d be able to hurt Erik badly, unless he let them of course—

“Erik?” Charles’s voice is sharp, worried. Erik blinks. “You were—you stopped talking.”

“Forgive me,” Erik says, to both boy and healer. “I was thinking of other things.” He looks expectantly at Moira, hoping for another herb-lore question, but she’s frowning slightly, now.

“Charles.” Moira smiles. “Can you slide into the wagon and find me the bread and cheese?”

“’M’ not hungry,” Charles says, wary. Moira and Sean seem bent on pushing food down both their new friends’ gullets at every opportunity. Charles, as a growing boy, finds this easier to cope with than Erik, who certainly can draw energy from food, but doesn’t _need_ to.

“Please,” Moira says, and Charles leans over. Erik hastily guides his horse to keep pace with the wagon and grips the back of Charles’s tunic as he scrambles from horse to wagon.

“Erik.” Moira waits until the boy is out of sight. She speaks quietly. “Are you going to stop punishing yourself anytime soon?”

Erik looks at her, stolidly. She sighs.

“I can see it. Sean can see it. Soon Charles will be able to see it.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Erik ventures, guardedly. He doesn’t. He hasn’t been doing… anything like that. “Why do you think-?”

“You don’t sleep,” Moira says, conversationally. “You don’t eat; and until those guards attacked us you were walking barefoot and coatless behind the wagon. What—”

“I don’t—don’t need those things.” Erik looks away, toward the wagon. When will Charles come back out?

“It costs you energy to replace them,” Moira says. Erik reluctantly turns to stare at her. How does she know that? “Charles explained that,” Moira continues. “I just—” She rubs her forehead. “You know being bound like that wasn’t your fault, and neither was anything that—that swine made you do for him?” Erik opens his mouth. “You _should_ know that, anyway,” Moira adds. Erik closes his mouth.

“It’s not that,” Erik says, and ignores the fact that he’s just tacitly admitted he is punishing himself. “It’s Charles. I was free when I—” He looks down, at his horses’ mane, picks off a stray wisp of grass. “When I hurt him.” He looks up ahead at the horizon. “I made an agreement—”

“That you wouldn’t hurt him; Charles said.” Erik doesn’t look at her.

“That my actions would not bring him harm and—”

“You came back for him.”

“That is hardly the point.” Erik wonders where Charles has got to. Not because he’s hungry—food is not a necessity, to Erik—but because the appearance of his—the little trader would hopefully stop this conversation. “I am—it is not in my nature to—

“Erik.” Moira has nudged her horse closer now, puts a hand on his arm. “Stop. Stop it. If you think you acted wrongly, at least hear this: Charles has already forgiven you.”

 _Charles is not the one who matters_ , Erik thinks. “His family will not forgive me,” he says aloud.

This week, these days of rain and herbal lore and keeping Charles dry and fed and healing, is all Erik will have of time spent with his little trader. Charles will grow, and become an adult, and Erik will never, never see him again—

“I got the soft cheese.” Charles sticks his head out of the wagon, handing a slab of bread spread with soft cheese to Sean.

“Thanks, lad,” the healer murmurs, and glances over to his wife and Erik. “You won’t know until you get there,” he says, softly. Charles frowns in sudden thought. 

“Give it a try,” Moira adds. Erik blinks at her.

“Erik,” Charles says, seriously. Erik reins his horse back. “You should try this cheese, it’s brilliant.” Erik falters.

Charles leans out, and Erik snatches him by the back of his tunic, planting the boy securely on the horse in front of him.

“Here.” Charles hands Erik another slab of bread smeared with cheese. “You try that; I can eat it if you don’t like it.”

“All right,” Erik says, yielding to the inevitable, and he’s not sure which of them he’s agreeing with.

He chews away at the bread and the cheese; and it is delicious.

 

Two days later:

“Come on!” Charles is jittery and excited at the thought of being so close to home. “We’ll be there by lunchtime.” He leans forwards, almost out of Erik’s arms, on the horse.

“Stop bouncing.” Erik tries to conceal his agitation. Today. Soon, now, it will come.

From small roads and back ways they have come to this fine, dusty, cobbled lane that Charles swears he would be able to ride blindfold. From shared pain and shared healing, they have come to this point of separation.

“Is that one horse or several riders?” Sean shades his eyes with a hand. 

Sitting next to him on the wagon, Moira squints.

“Riders,” she says, and Erik frowns, letting his hand drift to his sword.

“I—” Charles breaks off, instead waving and yelling like a demented being. The riders head directly towards them. “It’s them!”

Charles slides from the horse to the ground, Erik barely able to keep him from bruising himself before he’s off and running to the others. Erik reins the horse to a stop and watches the small, determined figure shrink.

“Done,” he says softly, and runs mental fingers over the minor bond he and Charles have shared, preparing for the tearing pain of cutting it.

Charles is talking to the lead rider, a dark-haired man with the same blue eyes as Charles, who’s waving at Erik, at the wagon, and babbling on. The dark-haired man goes pale, and stares straight at Erik. Erik squares his shoulders. He has been expecting this.

“Go on,” Moira says, and Erik nerves himself. Now he must meet the reckoning for what he did, or did not to, to Charles’ harm. Erik’s horse ambles forwards placidly. He looks briefly at the boy, face bright with happiness, and can only hope he remembers this, once he has been ordered away

“Erik,” Charles is saying. “This is my dad; Dad, this is Erik. Like I said.”

“Brian Xavier,” The dark-haired man says. 

“Erik.” Erik dips his head, and waits for judgment. 

The moment stretches.

Charles coughs. Erik looks up to see Brian leaning forwards, hands held out. Puzzled, he does the same. 

“Thank you,” Brian Xavier says hoarsely, seizing Erik’s hand with both of his. “Thank you.”

 

 

Epilogue:

“UnkEeeeerrrrrrrik! UnkaErrrriiiikk!!”

Erik looks about for the being that had emitted such a wild and garbled cry. The hayfields beyond the big house are a pleasant place to sit and consider things; but they didn’t exactly have a good vantage, once he’d sat down. The noise was vaguely familiar, though, and so he stands.

The hay rustles sharply. Erik swings round, but his reactions are too slow.

“Unka Eeeeerrrrik! Was looking for you!” Erik is seized around the knees by a very dishevelled creature.

“Hello, Francis,” Erik says, placidly. “And now you have found me.” He sits back down in the grass.

Charles’s and Emma’s youngest son, for some reason, is _fascinated_ by his father’s tall trade-spirit friend. Charles’s other children—David in particular—are friendly enough to him, but none of them had followed Erik around like a puppy at this age.

“You was not here,” Francis says reproachfully, as he climbs into Erik’s lap. “Daddy and Mummy were sad.” The boy makes a face, showing just how sad his parents have been. His lips wobble, his eyes widen and his shoulder slump. Tragically.

“I very much doubt that your lady mother showed her distress,” Erik murmurs, shifting his arms to hold the boy more securely.

“She was sad,” Francis insists. He lays his head on Erik’s shoulder. “Don’t go ‘way again,” he mumbles.

Erik smiles. “Sometimes I must travel, small one,” he says, softly.

“I have candy,” Francis tells him. He brandishes a sticky bag under Erik’s nose. 

“So I see. And… smell.” Candied pears, at first sniff.

“You can have it. IF you stay,” Francis says, and his blue eyes widen, making him look more like his father than ever. “Stay always.”

“Ah, child,” Erik says. “Trading already? You should first make sure that what you are willing to trade, the other wants.”

“Everybody wants candy,” Francis insists. His face falls. “’Cept mummy. And you?”

“You should also make sure,” Erik says, skimming over the question of any tastes he and the Lady Emma Frost-Xavier might share, “that what you want, the other person can give. Not even for your father can I stay here all the time.”

Erik sets Francis aside, gently, and moves to stand. The long shadows are growing, and it is time this small one was heading bath and bedwards, or at least supperwards.

“Unka Erik?” Francis’s face creases in a thoughtful frown. “Can I have a piggyback? You can still have my candy,” he adds, generously, after some cogitation.

“Don’t offer everything at once,” Erik advises the baby, and extends a hand. “Wait and see if the person you’re trading with is willing to act without recompense.” Francis wrinkles his face. Erik sighs. Too many long words again.

“Piggy back for a hug?” Francis offers next, giggling. “Daddy sent me out to find you.”

“Did he, now? Accepted,” Erik says, very gravely. Francis sticks his arms up immediately. Erik scoops the boy up, and Francis hugs him tightly.

“Also,” Erik says, as he shifts Francis to his shoulders and sets out for home, “Try not to pay all at once; a little before the trade and a little after is better.”

“Charrrge!” Francis squeals, and Erik sighs, breaking into a jog trot. He’ll teach the boy more about the essentials of good and wise trading later. Right now he has a road to run down, and a giggling small boy to keep safe on this soft summer evening.


End file.
